Instruments of War

As wars go, Le Mans 1967 was definitive: Goliath 1, David 0. We drive the antagonists.

One Mark IV remained unaccounted for—the red No. 1 of Dan Gurney and A.J. Foyt. With its distinctive “Gurney bubble,” a dome in the roof to accommodate Gurney’s almost six-foot-three frame, No. 1 had been oddly unimpressive. Foyt, a Le Mans rookie, could be excused for not putting up a front-running time, but the incomparable Gurney, a Le Mans veteran, was always looked to for the fastest time. Yet from the beginning, No. 1 was only moderately fast. Stranger still, in the race’s early going, Gurney seemed content to let Ronnie Bucknum’s old Mark II lead for an hour. Indeed, on the first lap, Gurney let the Mark IIs of Frank Gardner and Jo Schlesser pass him. What was wrong?

“I knew our car’s only weak spot was its brakes,” Gurney says today, “so we did anything we could to save them. Instead of abusing them stopping from top speed—we were doing 213 on Mulsanne—I’d let off 300 yards before the braking area at the Mulsanne corner and let the air slow me down. Then I’d use the brakes.”

After years of mechanical failures, Gurney knew too well that the 24 Hours of Le Mans takes 24 hours. And in the ’60s, no race car could survive being beaten on for a whole day. Just this once for Gurney, then, winning trumped being fastest.

“In practice, we just made the car comfortable,” Gurney says. “As race cars go, it was like an American car that was roadworthy—big and heavy and fast. When we set the nose low enough to eliminate lift—lower than allowed by the rules, but that’s the way things were done in those days—it would go through the Mulsanne kink at 213 with one hand on the wheel. You wouldn’t expect a car that comfortable to bust all the average speed and distance records—but it did.”

Indeed, the red No. 1 set the record at that time for the 24-hour circuit—covering 3250 miles at an average of 135.5 mph. It bettered the previous record by 10 mph. “It was a great car,” Gurney says. “And as long as we obeyed Ford’s rev limit—600 rpm below the redline—which we did, it stayed great. Three years later, we had a reunion with the car. I got in, and it was still great—comfortable as an old shoe.”

By midnight, Ferrari, too, knew No. 1 was great. The second-place Scarfiotti/Parkes Ferrari P4 was several laps down and running just behind Gurney, the leader. The Ferrari began flashing its lights wildly as if to pass. Finally, Gurney did the unthinkable. At the slow Arnage corner, he pulled off onto the grass and stopped. And instead of passing, Mike Parkes stopped, too, and waited for Gurney to continue.

“When Parkes stopped,” Gurney grins, “it proved Ferrari knew its only chance was to pressure us into abusing our car. We didn’t, and the race was ours.”

The Ferraris struggled on haplessly, Scarfiotti/Parkes’s P4 finishing second, 32.5 miles in arrears. Another 50 miles back was the Mairesse/Beurlys P4. Chassis 0846 (the magnificent car here at Lime Rock), driven by Chris Amon and Nino Vaccarella, led the race briefly at lap 21 during the first round of pit stops but then steadily fell back. Early that evening, at top speed, it suffered a blown left-rear tire. Amon tried to replace the wheel, but the head of the hammer needed to knock the hub spinner loose flew off. In desperation, he tried to drive with the flat tire six miles back to the pits. On the way, the tire caught fire and ignited the car’s entire left-rear corner. It was the end of 0846’s race and career—until now, four decades later.

After leading effortlessly for 23 of the 24 hours, No. 1 took the checkered flag Sunday afternoon. Foyt at the wheel, Gurney sprawled across the nose, it drove to victory circle. The red No. 1, now in the Henry Ford Museum, remains the only American-built car ever to win Le Mans overall. And for sheer Americanness, none could compare to Daniel Sexton Gurney and Anthony Joseph Foyt. As if to underscore the point, Gurney got a mischievous gleam in his eye. Handed the magnum of victor’s champagne, he shook it up and, for the first time, sprayed everyone within range—the Deuce included.

Every time you see a race winner spraying champagne, he (or maybe she) is paying imitative tribute to the most defiantly American triumph in international racing history—Ford’s Le Mans 1967.